


Tsuwamono Domo ga Yume no Ato

by wiseorfool



Series: Honmaru Ibun [2]
Category: Touken Ranbu 2.5D, Touken Ranbu: Atsukashiyama Ibun, 刀剣乱舞 | Touken Ranbu
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Mostly Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiseorfool/pseuds/wiseorfool
Summary: The boy who interrupts Yoshitsune's bloodlust is far too old to be called a boy and with hair too long to be called a man.  He is bright and cheerful and energetic and there is something about him that draws the eye to him again and again.  Like Yoshitsune, he is somehow magnetic. Like Yoshitsune, he is a little manic.  And like Yoshitsune, he cannot be ignored.





	Tsuwamono Domo ga Yume no Ato

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sekaiseifuku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekaiseifuku/gifts).



The moon is bright enough overhead, but the clouds hang low and heavy, largely obscuring it's light. Yoshitsune, ever quick to take advantage of such things, has led them into the heart of Yoritomo's sleeping camp.

 

For long minutes, all is chaos. The men's spirits are whipped into a frenzy by Yoshitsune's madness and even Benkei feels himself picked up and carried along by the tide. At the head of the line, Yoshitsune's frenzy is a palpable thing. Faced with his brother's betrayal, he pretends himself a martyr, as he has done for years. Benkei is exhausted by it, but loyally silent. It is not his place to question, not now, when they have finally caught up to Yoritomo after nipping at his heels for weeks.

 

If he can prevent a massacre, Benkei thinks that will be enough. If he can only do that much, it will have to be enough.

 

But Yoshitsune's moods shift almost too quickly for anyone to keep up. Benkei feels a strange sort of sympathy for Yoritomo when they finally corner him on the outskirts of his now ruined camp.

 

“My beloved brother,” Yoshitsune says, nearly on the verge of tears. “What did I ever do to you? How could you come to hate me deeply enough to desire my head?”

 

Yoritomo, desperate fool that he is, tries to defend himself with words where soldiers have failed. “I could never hate you! It was he--” He points to Yasuhira, who lets out an inhuman shriek. Yoritomo stumbles backwards and falls silent. The stink of terror is heavy on him.

 

“I know your plans,” Yoshitsune continues, his voice pitching up in a manic and desperate way. “I know you intended to have my head and that you intended to place the blame for my death on Yasuhira. Two birds with one stone, was it, brother? Did you hope to be rid of two obstacles to your rule in one easy motion?”

 

Benkei only reads the signs thanks to long years spent at Yoshitsune's side. Yoshitsune hardly twitches, a barely perceptible tightening of his grip on his sword, and Benkei skids forward to place himself just to Yoritomo's side. Not in front, not protecting, never that presumptuous, but to the side, firmly in Yoshitsune's line of sight, where he cannot be ignored.

 

“My Lord!” He keeps his head bowed. At times like these, it is better to be more deferential than not.

 

There is the lingering tone of a sneer in Yoshitsune's voice. “What is it, Benkei?”

 

“Lord Yoritomo has nowhere to run, My Lord, there is no need for us to be in a rush to kill him!”

 

Yoshitsune lets out an unearthly howl and charges forward as if to take his brother's head immediately. Benkei takes two great steps toward his lord and falls to his knees in supplication.

 

“Besides, Lord Yoshitsune, did you not say yourself you wished to hear his reasons?”

 

“His reasons?” Yoshitsune stops in his tracks, his voice gone abruptly soft.

 

Benkei takes heart. Although it seems as though Yoshitsune has entirely forgotten his own stated reason for hunting his brother, the beastly rage which earlier consumed him has vanished entirely. Perhaps this will not come to blows after all.

 

“The reason he--”

 

“Lord Yoshitsune!!”

 

Four heads swivel as one to find the source of the sudden interruption. A boy, dressed all in white and with a delicate veil over his head, appears between two ruined tents. He is attired neither for battle, nor for court, and his eyes gleam like bright jewels. There is something...not _wrong_ about him, but not _right_ , either.

 

“Who are you?” A ghost? A demon? Something else entirely? Benkei isn't sure there are any good answers to that question.

 

The boy answers by running forward and flinging the veil in Yasuhira's face. Yasuhira stumbles back with a startled yell and Benkei, focused on his companion's struggles, fails to notice the boy until suddenly those jewel-like eyes are entirely too close to his own.

 

“You--!” He grabs the boy around the waist with one arm and plants his feet firmly, lest they both topple thanks to his distraction. “Be careful! Such recklessness is dangerous!”

 

The only response he receives is bright, brief laughter before the boy wriggles free and flings himself to the ground at Yoshitsune's feet.

 

“Please forgive my impudence, Lord Yoshitsune!” Or so he says, but he continues before giving Yoshitsune a chance to react at all. “Lord Yoshitsune, didn't you soften ay-- I mean, sidn't you usual-- wait, let me try again--”

 

And just like that, the tension built up around their battlefield dissipates. Yoshitsune laughs heartily and crouches, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Take a breath. Consider your words and _then_ speak. Try again.”

 

There is awe in the boy's face when he nods. Benkei knows that look. He has worn it himself around Yoshitsune countless times.

 

The boy rises to his feet and takes a deep, deep breath. He holds it for a few seconds and lets it all out in a rush, dropping back to his knees as he does.

 

“My Lord Yoshitsune!” he tries again, more steady this time, though no less hurried in his delivery. “My Lord Yoshitsune, the truth is that in fact you, Lord Yoshitsune, care very deeply for your brother, Lord Yoritomo, and you have always longed for a close bond with him! ...Right?”

 

 _Well_ , Benkei thinks, straightening up. _He isn't_ wrong.

 

Beside him, Yasuhira stiffens, this talk of bonds obviously not sitting well with him. Hardly a surprise, given Yoshitsune's earlier accusations and his own slightly manic bloodlust. He shoves the veil into Benkei's hands as though it's something dirty and walks several paces away to an angry, but respectable, distance.

 

Neither Yoshitsune nor the boy take notice of this, their attention focused wholly on each other. The intent gleam in the boy's eyes matches that in Yoshitsune's, Benkei is startled to realize. How odd that two strangers should be so alike in such a way.

 

“Lord Yoshitsune,” the boy continues, “the truth is you are very kind. At least, that's what I've heard! From people! People who I've spoken to! About you!”

 

He's starting to stumble again. Yoshitsune clears his throat and the boy leaps to his feet, his attention now trapped somewhere between Yoshitsune and Benkei. Yoshitsune, who he addresses, and Benkei, who he almost seems to be seeking reassurance from.

 

“What I mean is-- I have heard people talking of you, and their memories of you, and of their memories of Lord Yoritomo, and...of... their belief in the importance of brotherhood and friendship, thanks to you!” He gestures broadly between Yoshitsune and Yoritomo. “That's why I think-- don't you think it would be good if you could sit down and speak with each other?”

 

“Boy.” Yoshitsune walks forward purposefully and the boy falls back before him in an awkward half-bowed pose. “Your name.”

 

“My name? I...um...” He turns toward Benkei, looking utterly lost. “What was it again?”

 

Benkei bursts into laughter. “Boy, if you do not know your own name, you are far beyond my help!”

 

At his polite distance, Yasuhira huffs quietly behind a hand, shoulders visibly shaking. Even Yoritomo chuckles gently, despite his perilous situation.

 

Best to take advantage of the lull in everyone's animosity. Benkei turns to Yoshitsune. “My Lord, the hour is late, our enemies dead at our feet or scattered where we cannot follow them tonight. We should return to camp and take our rest.”

 

Yoshitsune nods and gestures sharply at first Yasuhira and then his brother in a clear command. Yasuhira obeys and takes Yoritomo by the arm. The two men disappear shortly into the darkness.

 

There are three of them in the dim lanternlight now, Benkei, Yoshitsune, and the boy.

 

 _Now what_? the very air seems to whisper at them.

 

Now what, indeed? Yoshitsune is watching the darkness as though he can still see Yasuhira and Yoritomo, both well out of sight by now. He stands stiffly, clutching at his sword and jerking his hand away from it by turns. Benkei has found himself doing the same thing often enough these days. At times his weapon nearly burns in his hand.

 

“Boy.” Yoshitsune turns back toward the lanterns, leaving the darkness behind for now.

 

The boy leaps to attention, throwing one hand straight into the air. “Present!”

 

Benkei muffles his laugh behind the veil still crumpled in one hand.

 

Yoshitsune blinks twice at the boy's behavior. “You're an odd one. Where are you from?”

 

“I, um....” A little of that boundless enthusiasm falters. His hand comes down and fists in his long, long hair. “...Nowhere I can go back to, I think.”

 

“Come, then,” Yoshitsune says in a tone that brooks no argument. “You will make camp with us!”

 

There is no mistaking the joy in his answering “Yes!” and no missing the spring in his step when he alights after Yoshitsune's solid pace.

 

Benkei hangs back a moment longer, watching them go. The nostalgia that curls its way warmly through his lungs is peculiar, but not unwelcome. The boy-- for all that he looks too old to still be wearing his hair so long-- has a familiar sprightly posture, a sort of eagerness Benkei hasn't seen in many years. Not since a warm evening on a quiet bridge.

 

 _How funny_ , he thinks, turning the fine silk through his fingers. _Even_ _the woven patterns are the same._

 

This veil could be a match for the one Yoshitsune wore on the bridge those years ago, thought Benkei had been sure at the time it was one of a kind. The delicate material even catches on his roughened fingertips the same now as it did then--

 

But there is blood.

 

A reddish smear left by his thumb, just to the side of elegant gold-on-cream embroidery. He throws the veil away from himself reflexively and it floats into a puddle on the ground. Such a fine piece of material has no place on a battlefield or even a military camp. Nor in the dirt, where he has foolishly discarded it.

 

It is unlikely the nameless boy will want it back now that it's been so dirtied, but Benkei picks it up again anyway and carefully tucks it away where it will not-- he hopes-- be dirtied further.

 

From the darkness, Yoshitsune's voice calls to him and Benkei goes, ever loyal.

 

Yoshitsune splits away from them upon their return to camp, heading off the direction of Yasuhira's shouting, likely in search of his brother.

 

Benkei has no desire to intrude on what is, for the moment, a private family matter. Yasuhira emerges from a far tent and passes Benkei by, apparently feeling the same. Yoshitsune is sensible enough not to take his brother's head yet, not when he's been escorted as an honored prisoner back to the camp. Even if an execution were in order, and it may well be, it will not happen now, not in the middle of the night.

 

He decides to turn his attention instead to their mysterious new guest, who is currently busying himself by climbing atop a stack of boxes.

 

The boy has actually climbed high enough that Benkei has to look up at him. He smiles down at Benkei. His teeth, surprisingly white for a boy so well dressed, are slightly crooked. In the moonlight, standing where he is and smiling like he is, he looks so alarmingly like Yoshitsune did many years ago that Benkei feels something in his chest tighten.

 

 _Ignore it_ , he tells himself.

 

“Have you remembered your name yet?”

 

“Maybe!” The boy makes a flying leap off the boxes and lands mere inches from Benkei's side. “But if you want to know it, you'll have to catch me!”

 

Games, is it? Easy enough. Benkei reaches out to grab the boy and just misses.

 

The boy's ringing laughter floats up from behind him. “Too slow, too slow!”

 

Benkei frowns at the few strands of hair caught between his fingers. He is not too slow. “Come on, then! I will catch you and have you tell me all your secrets.”

 

He marches after the boy with grave purpose in his steps. The boy, for his part, laughs with joy and darts around behind him. Benkei feels something whap against the back of his leg and spins on his heel. He's nearly successful in his attempt, his fingers wrapping tight around the wooden flute he's just been smacked with and stealing it away.

 

The scene is all too familiar. Benkei, trying and failing to keep up with an assailant half his size. The assailant in question, using rather unconventional weaponry. Benkei shakes the flute at the boy like he'd shake his hand at a student.

 

“These are not meant for hitting.”

 

“Eh!” At least the boy has the grace to look surprised by the loss of his makeshift weapon. His hand closes on empty air and he blinks at it as though he can't quite comprehend where the flute has gone.

 

Benkei takes advantage of this momentary distraction and lets his hand fall heavy on the back of the boy's neck. The boy twists under his hold and then Benkei is all too close to those wide, jewel-like eyes for the second time. Before him a slender body, and elegant carriage, a boy too old to be called a boy but with hair too long to be called a man. Benkei makes as though to let go, but his battle hardened fingertips drag across the boy's skin.

 

They stay like that a moment longer, frozen in place by the sudden, strange shift in the air. Benkei jerks his hand away at last and reaches inside his kimono. He withdraws the veil and shoves it roughly into the boy's hands. He does not linger further, turning to leave.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the boy clutching the veil to his face with both hands, as though he means to hide behind it.

 

Benkei leaves, and does not look back again.

 

He wanders the outskirts for an indeterminate time, soaking in the solitude and trying, not for the first time, to make sense of the strange circumstances of these past few days. The camp is quiet when he at last returns to its center. Half the soldiers have bedded down for the night, and those still awake are subdued by their fatigue.

 

Yoshitsune appears from his tent, sleepy eyed but straight backed, and beckons to Benkei. “Our latest addition is not with you?”

 

Benkei shakes his head and sits where Yoshitsune indicates. An easy silence settles between them, a comfortable weight between two men who have stood at one another's side for years.

 

“He's a charming fellow, isn't he?” Yoshitsune's voice cracks with exhaustion, but he continues. “A bit of an odd duck, but he has an earnestness about him I can't help but like.”

 

“Ah.” Benkei nods, shifting his weight to one side. “He reminds me a little of you in your younger days, my lord.”

 

“Of me! I hope you aren't calling me odd!”

 

There's a hint of irritation in that – Yoshitsune never has liked feeling mocked – and Benkei backpedals quickly with one hand outstretched.

 

“Never! I only mean that his cheerful nature is very much like yours! It reminds me of when we first met, My Lord, and the energetic way you teased me back then, only that, I swear.”

 

Yoshitsune chuckles, any sign of annoyance gone. How quickly his mood changes these days. “Shall I find the two of you a bridge to fight on, since you're feeling so nostalgic for the old days? I'm sure that boy will be more than happy to fulfill my role.”

 

Benkei sputters. He can feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck. How Yoshitsune can say these things so easily is beyond him. “My lord, please--”

 

The protest does little to quell Yoshitsune's mirth, though he does at least seem to sense Benkei's discomfort and makes some attempt to contain his laughter. He waves a hand, not quite in dismissal, and takes several deep breaths before he speaks again. “A joke, Benkei. Only a joke and one I fear may have been in poor taste. Forgive me.”

 

Poor taste though it might have been, it does feel good to hear his lord laughing again. The recent weeks have been too tense and too somber by far. If a joke at Benkei's expense is the price to pay for seeing his lord smile again, then Benkei is happy enough to pay it. His face may stay red for a while longer, but the feeling of embarrassment fades.

 

All too soon, so does the light air. Yoshitsune lifts his face to the heavens and only now does Benkei realize his cheeks are wet.

 

“I am conflicted,” he says at last. “My brother has certainly conspired against me, that is true. He outmaneuvered me on the field of politics and I paid the price. Yet here we stand with a second chance in our grasp.”

 

But a second chance for what, exactly, is unclear. Yoshitsune's conflict is clear enough. Does he execute his brother and in taking his rightful revenge proof Yoritomo's fears true? Does he brook for peace only to risk petty jealousies ruining all they have fought for once again? Yoshitsune is meant for the battlefield and Yoritomo meant for court. It is only because Yoshitsune played at politics that Yoritomo met him on the battlefield.

 

Benkei has no good answers for the questions Yoshitsune doesn't ask aloud. He has never been very good at politics either.

 

“Do we have a plan of action?” It almost seems cruel to press Yoshitsune for answers when he is clearly still so full of questions, but both men know with Yoritomo in their midst, hesitating isn't an option.

 

“For now the plan of action is to sleep.” Yoshitsune gestures and there, just at the edge of the lamplight, stands the boy. “The hour is late. No good decisions can be made when so tired. You, boy. You must have a place to rest for the night. Benkei, attend to him.”

 

What. “Pardon?”

 

“I cannot leave him be and I will not leave him to Yasuhira. You are the better choice by far.” Yoshitsune rises and stretches, the weight of weariness visible in his bowed shoulders. “We will consider tomorrow's matters tomorrow. Good night to you both.”

 

He leaves them and returns to his own tents. A sleepy-eyed page scuttles after him, ready to take his armor. And then both are gone, and Benkei is left with the boy, not entirely sure where to put him.

 

It has been some years since Benkei shared close quarters, but he will make room. He would hardly call it spacious, but it is near enough to his lord and secluded enough from the foot soldiers. He beckons and the boy follows, peeking over his shoulder every few steps in the direction of Yoshitsune's tent until they turn a corner and it falls out of sight.

 

“He won't come out again, you know.” Probably asleep on his feet before the last of his armor was even off, Benkei guesses.

 

“I know.” If the boy is troubled by it, he shows no sign. He inserts himself into Benkei's space without the slightest hesitation.

 

In fact, he makes a downright pest of himself, investigating everything in reach. Benkei's personal belongings, his scrolls and his extra weapons, even the lightweight futon still neatly folded and to one side. Surely such mediocre, commonplace things cannot be so interesting, but the boy inspects each at turns, occasionally ducking behind Benkei or under an arm to get a better look at something new.

 

Benkei tolerates the invasion with tired humor, unwinding the scarf around his head while the boy busies himself with shaking out the folded futon.

 

Truth be told, he isn't sure why the urge takes hold of him, but the next time the boy is close enough, Benkei drops the scarf on his head. He regrets it almost immediately-- after extended combat, it's nothing less than filthy-- and he opens his mouth to apologize.

 

“A monk's garb doesn't suit you at all,” is what comes out instead.

 

The boy laughs and pulls the scarf off his head. He folds it roughly in his hands, but does not put it down. “A monk's _life_ wouldn't suit me at all!”

 

“No,” Benkei agrees. He plucks at the veil now draped over the boy's shoulders and tugs the hem up over his head. “No, it never would. Something like this is more fitting.”

 

His knuckle brushes the top of the boy's ear and he stills. How long has it been since he touched another so freely? How long has it been since he saw something-- someone-- beautiful and reached out to them?

 

Perhaps he has desired this all along, with his pride and meager sense of decorum preventing him from seeking it out. This boy who is not Yoshitsune but who is so very like him has awakened something Benkei forced into sleep long ago. He is overstepping his bounds; regardless of the boy's specific origins, his dress and bearing mark him, like Yoshitsune, as someone far above Benkei's social station.

 

He should withdraw his hand.

 

He moves it instead to the boy's hair. Knotted on itself, it comes free easily when Benkei tugs on it gently. It is far longer than he at first realized. Now that it falls freely over the boy's shoulder, Benkei can see that it more than long enough to rival that of any lady-in-waiting at court.

 

“If you wish it cut, I think Lord Yoshitsune would be glad enough to do so for you.”

 

The boy breathes out hard, not quite a laugh. There is a faint, rosy blush high on his cheeks that leads Benkei to believe he isn't entirely opposed to the idea. With how eagerly he threw himself at Yoshitsune's feet only hours ago, that's hardly a surprise.

 

“Or,” Benkei continues, “if you do not wish it then, well. You would not be the first man to wear his hair long five or even ten years past the age it should be cut. ...And it does suit you.”

 

The flush on the boy's cheeks darkens but he says nothing. He lifts his hand, fingertips finding the one unguarded space on Benkei's wrist, a separation in the armor to allow for movement. His touch is feather light and he says nothing. In this quiet that has fallen between them, he requires no words to make his intentions plain.

 

The boy is a little too short to easily reach the ties which hold Benkei's breastplate in place, and so Benkei kneels and does not miss the flicker of the boy's eyelashes when he does so.

 

How long? How long since Benkei has been at someone other than Yoshitsune's feet? Benkei is Yoshitsune's most trusted friend and second. This boy is an unknown. And yet here they are. With this boy playing page when they both know very clearly that he is anything but, and with Benkei on his knees in the most blatant gesture of supplication he has made in years.

 

The breastplate comes loose and is set aside. Their ties undone, his pauldrons fall, too, hitting the earth with a dull and heavy thud. He should tend to them, put them away properly, but his senses are too full of white cloth and the distant smell of incense to do so.

 

The boy touches his shoulder, the skin where Benkei's kimono has slipped beneath his armor. “Benkei. Will you assist me?”

 

“Of course,” he answers without thought.

 

Benkei's hands are already at the boy's waist, loosening the white hakama ties as easily as he would his own. The hakama fall and pool around the boy's ankles. He steps out of them, anklets chiming softly, with a hand on Benkei's shoulder for balance. The kimono underneath is barely long enough to meet the middle of his thighs, and when he shifts his weight, Benkei realizes it is barely long enough to retain modesty either. The kimono slips from the boy's shoulders just as quickly and then he stands in front of Benkei, fully nude with only his long, long hair draped over his shoulder providing him with any kind of shelter from prying eyes.

 

Like Yoshitsune on the bridge, Benkei can hardly believe the beautiful figure in front of him is real.

 

“I won't disappear if you touch me, you know.”

 

Ah. His awe must be clearer than he thought. He fumbles to cover it up, clearing his throat and lifting his head to look the boy in the eye. “I'm aware of that. I've already taken hold of you once, if you remember, and you didn't vanish then! Here, come here.”

 

He doesn't beckon-- no need for that when they're already so close-- but presses the flat of his palm firmly against the back of the boy's thigh, urging him a half step closer. The boy laughs and follows along. The flush on his face has spread to his shoulders, but the clearest sign of his interest is lower still.

 

It is very unlikely that this is what Yoshitsune meant when he told Benkei to “attend to the boy.”

 

Intent be damned. Decency be damned, too.

 

Benkei leans forward and takes the boy's half-hard cock in his mouth. The weight of hands upon his shoulders is gratifying, the soft “Oh!” above him even moreso.

 

 _I will take hold of you,_ Benkei says with the upward press of his tongue, the rough scrape of his beard against soft, pale thighs. _You will not vanish_.

 

The boy's fingers turn to claws, nails digging into Benkei's skin. His hips twitch forward in time with his breath. It grows labored, like Benkei grows hard inside his kimono.

 

“Benkei. _Benkei_.” The name sounds like a prayer falling from the boy's lips.

 

In this at least, the boy is still a boy. For all his energy and youthful eagerness, his stamina fails him here. His whole body shudders and he spills into Benkei's mouth, unpleasantly bitter. Benkei strokes his thighs until he loosens his tight grip and wobbles briefly before dropping heavily into Benkei's lap.

 

“I feel refreshed.” There's no reason for him to sound so pleased with himself, but he does. His thighs are reddened where Benkei's beard rubbed the skin. “Tired, but refreshed.”

 

Still fully nude, the boy tucks himself up close against Benkei and pushes until they both topple over onto the still half-folded futon. A rock digs into Benkei's hip and the boy's hair gets caught under his arm, but this all seems somehow unimportant. By the way he's made himself comfortable, Benkei doubts the concept of reciprocation has even entered the boy's mind.

 

No matter. Benkei is still hard but he says nothing of it and makes no move to relieve himself. It is strange to realize he has no real desire to. He is uncomfortable, but with the boy's weight against his chest, almost comfortably so. Perhaps in the morning he will take care of things, but for now he intends to follow Yoshitsune's advice and take his rest.

 

The quiet draws out, the sound of a sleeping camp coaxing Benkei's eyes closed.

 

“I'll keep you safe.”

 

“Hm?” Benkei tightens his arm around the boy gently, only half hearing the words.

 

There is no clarification, no response at all save for the boy's now even breathing. Outside the tent, a foot soldier grumbles quietly and falls silent again. In the morning. He will approach Yoshitsune about cutting the boy's hair in the morning. About their plans for Lord Yoritomo. About...other matters. In the morning.

 

When he wakes, he is alone and there is a bitter taste in his mouth that he cannot name.

 


End file.
